


Some Dance to Forget

by sabaceanbabe



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaceanbabe/pseuds/sabaceanbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The only coolness, the only warmth, the only Sun he knows is Aeryn.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Dance to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Written for challenge 14 at [](http://farscape-land.livejournal.com/profile)[**farscape_land**](http://farscape-land.livejournal.com/) for the photographic prompt: [Deep as the Ocean](http://www.flickr.com/photos/lel4nd/6041353854/). Oh! And the title of the fic comes from the Eagles' _Hotel California_. :)

The morning breeze sweeps in from the ocean, cool against John’s face. The sun, barely risen high enough to clear the horizon, bathes the beach and the rocks and John with its golden light, kisses his skin with the slightest touch of warmth; it will be hours yet before that warmth is enough to lessen the chill of the damp sand on which he sits. Water laps onto the beach, splashes against the rocks rising up to break the ocean’s surface, the rhythmic sound soothing.

John Crichton feels, sees, hears none of it.

He sits on the cold, damp beach, his legs folded into the shape of a pretzel, his elbows resting on his knees. The only coolness, the only warmth, the only Sun he knows is Aeryn.

 _On his father’s couch, in his father’s house, shining black hair so sleek and smooth that John’s hands ache with the need to touch it, Aeryn smiles and laughs her endorsement as Olivia threatens to bring out the bare-assed baby pictures._

John twirls a lakka bulb between his thumb and forefinger, the stem of it hard and rough enough to catch lightly at the ridges and whorls of his fingertips. He shudders, closes his eyes against the beauty of the sunrise and the ugliness of the small, dark bulb he holds.

 _Aeryn falls backward into John’s arms, a red stain spreading over her white satin dress. Someone screams a wordless, agonized denial; a split second in time and he realizes that those screams are torn from his own throat and horror closes in, choking him._

He clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, wills that particular image away. “It’s not even real,” he breathes. Drawing his knees up, John wraps his arms around them and lowers his head, rests his right cheek on his arms, the lakka gripped in his right fist, the stem of it threatening to pierce his ring finger.

 _She lifts her face to the rain, opens her mouth, extends her tongue to catch the falling droplets even as John’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. “Mmm…” The simple sound rockets through him like a bolt of lightning. “Rain. Is that what you call this?” She smiles. “I like it.” Her tongue darts out to catch another drop and John thinks he might never breathe again._

A gull glides overhead, its elongated shadow lingering on the brightening sand in front of John. It shrieks at him as if asking what he holds in his hands, what treat he has for it to eat. “You do not want this, bird,” he whispers. “I don’t even want it.” But Wrinkles has a seemingly endless supply and every time he thinks he must have reached the last of it, she’s there with more. And every time he thinks he should stop, that it has got to be doing something to him, to his brain – _and God knows there’s been enough crap done to my brain_ – he remembers why he takes the lakka in the first place. _My weaknesses, let me show you them…_

 _Aeryn, dressed all in black, but not leather, soft and supple, not Peacekeeper black, hard and martial. No. This is Scorpius black. Shiny. Chitinous. Heart-stopping, but not in a good way._

 _Her face, pale and damp with sweat, with tears, crumples. She crumples, falls to Moya’s deck._

John lifts the lakka bulb to his nose, squeezes it as though his life depends on it, breathes in the sickly sweet spores, his eyes fixed on the burning sun. He prays for blindness as the drug hits him like a sledgehammer to the face.

“What’cha doin’, Old Man?”

He chokes on his own breath. “Pip.”

She drops bonelessly to the beach beside him, bumps his shoulder with hers. Another gull cries overhead, or maybe it’s the same one. “Gonna share?” He glances sideways at Chiana. Definitely a different bird.

He looks out over the water, sparkling, glittering in the early morning sun. “Nope.”

Chiana slips her arm under his and leans into him, rubs her cheek on his shoulder. Her hair tickles his chin, his jaw. “Wanna… wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

She sighs, squeezes his arm. “So what do they call this place?”

“The beach?” He glances down at her, not at all surprised to see her in jeans and a tight blue sweater. The color suits her. Of them all, Chiana is the most adaptable. Certainly she fits in on Earth better than John.

“No, drenhead. This place. This… This island.” She snuggles in closer and he leans his head on hers, drops the used up lakka bulb to the sand between his feet, buries it with his heel.

“Guam. The island is called Guam.” He’s grateful that she doesn’t ask anymore about the lakka, that she accepts it and moves on. D’Argo would’ve made him feel guilty about it. Aeryn… Aeryn would have dogged him until he confessed everything, and after that… John shudders.

Chiana laughs, the sound as bright and light as the sun over the water. “What’s so funny?” John asks, momentarily distracted from his own worries, fears, memories.

“Guam is a…” she shrugs, searching. “It’s a kind of candy. It was always Nerri’s favorite.” She laughs again, but the sound isn’t quite as merry. “We’re on an island made of candy.”

“Willy Wonka would be so proud.”

She looks up at him, tilts her head. “A friend of yours?”

John squeezes her for a moment. “No, but I’ll introduce you to him when we get back to civilization.”

They fall quiet, watching the gulls wheel and spin out over the water, listening to the waves break against the rocks. John forces the memories to stay locked away in the adamantine box in his mind; the lakka coursing through his system helps.

After a time, he kisses the top of Chiana’s head lightly and asks, “Why’d you come out here, Chi? Isn’t it a little early for you?”

“I heard you wake up” – she heard him wake up from two rooms away because he’d awakened shouting from a nightmare – “and then I heard you leave.” She shifts a bit so she can look at his face; her impossibly black eyes seem to impale him. Uncharacteristically serious, she continues, “I was worried.”

John takes a deep breath, holds it, releases it. And still, Chiana pins him with her gaze. “I’m fine, Pip. I just need to work some things out.”

“Aren’t you glad to be home? Isn’t this what you wanted, Crichton?”

He can’t answer her. Suddenly that hit of lakka isn’t nearly enough. And it must show in his eyes. Chiana pats his arm, lifts his hand from her knee and strokes it with her cheek. “Don’t worry, Crichton. We’re here with you. We’re your… your friends.” She smiles up at him again, turns back toward the ocean. The sun is now well up in the sky. “We’ve got your back.”


End file.
